On my street they sell life,

Prices written in chalk on small black boards

Every day (except Monday)

The wares are laid out,

Polished and placed next to shiny ripe eggplants and crimson apples

Stacked into produce pyramids

Bought by the handful of eager pedestrians

Sandwiched between smelly mold-covered goat cheese (the best in France)

And rolling by bottles of gem-red wine

Here is where life does its dance

Pain d’épices and piles of spices

Near the butcher who thinly slices

All sorts of collections of lamb, beef and rabbit

The fishmonger piles it

On top of the scallops and urchins

It’s nestled between pink roses, blue daisies, and orange sunflowers

But smells sweeter yet than that

This life walks slowly, listening

To the rush of the fountain

Feels soft angora sweaters

Gazes over tables piled high with 4 euro handbags

“Mirabelles! Les plus belles!”

Every day (except Monday)

They sell life on my street

But you can never buy it.